


Stitching Time

by Nightmist



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Always, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, I'm always on this bullshit, M/M, Vignette, cute headcanons, elf husbands 24/7 in this Chilis, estimeric, soft, yes I'm back on my bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:16:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28446021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightmist/pseuds/Nightmist
Summary: Aymeric has a small personal emergency of the sort only Estinien can save him from. Luckily, peasants tend to have picked up a lot of practical skills...
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood
Comments: 19
Kudos: 42





	Stitching Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [orbitalknight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbitalknight/gifts).



> A Secret Santa present for Clams/OrbitalKnight who wanted some domestic fluff. Luckily, I love cute little domestic moments, so I had a very good time with this. :3

_*Shhhkkrrrrt!*_

The soft yet ragged sound of silk tearing filled the brief quiet moment between meetings as Aymeric de Borel, Lord Commander of Ishgard, stood to fetch a fresh sheet of blotting paper. Freezing all motion, he closes his eyes, offering a silent prayer to the Fury, then opens them again, sure he will know what he will find. And indeed, he does: the lustrous blue silk of his sash of office has snagged on the long-neglected splintered edge of his bottom left-hand desk drawer. Lucia had been nagging him for moons about the need to have someone in to sand it down, but it never seemed pressing enough.

In payment for his neglect, he now has a meeting with representatives from the Scholasticate to attend with a several ilms long ragged tear marring his appearance. His mother, Halone hold her soul, would be mortified. For a few seconds he stares in blank despair, already imagining Lucia's long-suffering look when she must fetch him a replacement. Again, since he may have knocked his tea over onto the original sash he had first donned this morning.

Wait!

A sudden flash of inspiration and he strides to the door, cracking it to call out into the Congregation beyond. "Ser Handeloup. Has anyone seen Ser Estinien recently? I need a moment of his time, quickly, if you can manage to locate him." Thankfully, the Azure Dragoon had duties in the city as well, and he could only hope that they have kept him nearby.

Returning to his desk to wait, Aymeric rummages through the drawers, sighing to himself when he finds there was, in fact, a square of sanding paper tucked away into one. Emptying the recalcitrant drawer, he removes it entirely, setting it on his desk. Thus exposed, he is able to pry loose the splinter he caught his sash on and to start smoothing down the wood to prevent a recurrence.

A curt knock at the door and before he can even call out, it is opened, and Estinien saunters inside. Only he, Handeloup, and Lucia would come in so casually, and only Estinien would be trying to hide a pleased smirk as he does so. "I heard you were in need of help, but I had rather thought that even your noble education was enough to teach you that drawers belong _inside_ the furniture, Aymeric."

With as little exasperation as he can manage, the noble Commander counters blandly, "Luckily for you, it was. However, as you may recall from earlier days, there were some areas where my proper education was rather lacking." Thus forewarned, he holds up the end of his sash, sheepishly revealing the long tear in it.

He cannot see the other man’s expression behind the concealing visor of the drachen mail helm that so often veils Estinien away from him, but he is all too familiar with his beloved's body language, and he is sure there was an unseen blink of surprise. Then the other man's lips part into a wolfish grin, teeth shining white. "I don't know, do I still get paid for doing your mending in kisses, like I did when we were afield?" The reminder brings a brief touch of color to Aymeric's ears; it had started as a joke, but more than once in their younger years, he had been able to not dress in rags and tatters when kept far from Ishgard and his family servants by relying on his peasant-raised friend's skills with needle and thread… and if it gave excuses for kissing, well. That was not a downside.

"I imagine that could be arranged, my dear." There is too much warmth to his voice to be properly prim, and Estinien knows it, still grinning as he moves to perch on the desk edge, reaching for the torn sash. Not intimidated in the least, and despite the teasing grin, quick to help ease his troubles no matter how petty and embarrassing they are.

"I don't suppose among all that you found a needle and thread?" In fact, Aymeric had, and he silently passes the requested items to the fierce, armored warrior next to him. With quick, efficient motions and impressive precision, Estinien sticks the end of the thread between his lips to wet it down, then deftly passes it through the eye of the needle. He settles in and starts to work, stitches perhaps not quite so tiny and neat as a proper seamstress, but more than good enough to pass muster so long as no one is staring too hard. (Truthfully, Aymeric has had more than one noble daughter of Ishgard exclaim over finding small, precisely mended wear on his clothes before, trying to figure out which of their cohort was secretly close to the Lord Commander. Not telling them that the answer is the fierce, grumpy, notoriously anti-social Azure Dragoon is one of his small joys in life.)

Mending torn fabric is, however, not the fastest process. Content with listening to the absent-minded, slightly tuneless humming of an old Eastern Coerthan folk song about lambing as Estinien sews, Aymeric returns to his short-term task of assuring his desk will not engage in any further battles with his beleaguered finery. He tries to stay aware of his motions, not disturbing the dragoon, even if he gets clucked at a few times for inadvertently tugging on the sash. 

A few more minutes pass, Aymeric eyeing the chronometer with quiet worry. The sound of a throat clearing pulls him back, then the feel of the slight tension where Estinien was holding his sash evaporating. "There you are. Ought not even be late for your meeting."

Deep fondness swells in his chest and, mindful of the edges of Estinien's helm, Aymeric reaches up to carefully cup his cheek. Holding the dragoon in place makes it easier to lean in and angle his head for the promised kiss, lips pressing to softly parted lips, a touch both sweet and timeless. He can taste a trace of tea on the other man's lips, which he suspects is mutual. When he finally must break the gentle, lingering embrace, Aymeric murmurs, "I would be lost without you, certainly. Will I be able to see you tonight for supper?" 

A brief wistful sigh passes Estinien's lips. "No, there are reports of a possible dragon sighting near Whitebrim. I leave in a few bells. When I return, though, I will find you. For dinner, tea, or, if need be…" He smirks and carefully rearranges the lay of the Lord's sash for a moment. "Cowering in your office, praying for rescue by deft peasant hands."

Startled into a laugh, Aymeric ducks his head, standing and giving his hands to help Estinien do the same. "Be careful, please, and know I will be waiting." He smiles then, warm and easy, the dragoon's hands lingering a few beats clasping his own before he must let go and depart back out the door. Still smiling, the Commander returns to restock and reassemble his desk, the chance for the small moment of relaxed, pleasant company enough to brighten the entire day.

**Author's Note:**

> Want to bug me specifically? My various social media (an be found via [my carrd](https://nightmist.carrd.co).
> 
> If you are so kind to have read this and are up to it, authors thrive most entirely upon comments, a crumb is ever appreciated.


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